


All That Glitters

by Cinaed



Series: The Best of Carolina The Teenage Witch [13]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sabrina the Teenage Witch Fusion, Developing Relationship, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Family Reunions, M/M, Magic, Meet the Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 02:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18540451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: Simmons attends his family reunion. It goes about as well as you'd expect.





	All That Glitters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [creatrixanimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/creatrixanimi/gifts).



> Well, this was not supposed to be 12,000 words but then feelings happened, so, uh, yeah, have 12,000 words of Simmons having a bad day. 
> 
> Thanks go out to creatrixanimi and Aryashi for looking this over for me, and helping with the plot of this as well as the dishonorable mention. And enjoy [creatrixanimi](http://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/)'s AMAZING joke art at the end. :D I literally cried with laughter and delight. 
> 
> This update was written with Dar Williams' [Your Fire Your Soul](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bRaneSyHOnc) and [Don't Be a Lawyer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QsxgXgo7ipQ) from Crazy Ex-Girlfriend as its soundtrack.

Simmons peers anxiously into the mirror, holding two ties against his chest. “Navy blue or burgundy,” he mumbles to himself. He glances over his shoulder at Grif. “What do you think?”

Grif blinks at him from the bed. Neither, he wants to say. Simmons looks weird out of his usual sweaters and sweater vests, stiff and uncomfortable in a brown tweed suit. Or maybe that’s just the nervous energy radiating off him. “Color blind, remember?” he says instead.

Simmons rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m about ninety-nine percent sure that’s not true. Come on, help me out. What tie should I wear to the reunion?” He holds them up for Grif’s inspection.

“Dude, I don’t know. Uh, the red, I guess?”

Simmons looks relieved. “Right, the red, of course.”  He puts the tie into a tie case, which Grif didn’t know existed until about thirty minutes ago, when Simmons changed his mind on his original choice of clothes for the family reunion and started a low-level freak-out. Simmons looks around, biting his lip. “Now where’s my lint roller….?”

“On the dresser,” Grif says. He jumps down to the ground, adding with a sarcastic edge to his voice, “I guess I’ll go practice my meows for that Washington kid.”

Simmons winces. He looks flustered and apologetic. “Listen, it was either bring him in as your cat-sitter or put you on an actual cat food kibble diet for three days, since that’s the only stuff that won’t spoil in the open air.”

“Could’ve lived on candy,” Grif points out.

Simmons rolls his eyes again, though a weak smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “Grif, I told you before: even candy gets stale. I promise I’ll buy you a bunch of pizza when I’m back, to make up for that raw food diet I told Wash you were on.”

“Uh huh,” Grif says flatly. There are multiple reasons that Grif isn’t enthusiastic about this family reunion. The Washington kid and raw food thing are two of the main ones, but the biggest is that Simmons Senior sounds like a grade-A dick.  

Simmons has played the invitation at least twenty times, like if he listens carefully he can unlock the secrets behind the terse message. “Richard, your mother and I expect you at the family reunion at the beach house for the fourth of July. Call your mother if we need to add a second meal for the caterer.” Grif has started leaving the room whenever Simmons plays it, because the way Simmons Senior talks grates on Grif’s nerves.

He hops onto the couch, going over his plan. Simmons is flustered and distracted, like Grif thought he’d be, even more flustered than he was that first week of school when Grif snuck along for the ride. Grif figures he has a fifty-fifty shot of getting into the car without being noticed. He’ll take those odds.

As if on cue, the doorbell rings. Grif bolts and hides behind the luggage that Simmons already has at the front door. He hears Simmons’ hurried footsteps, the door opening, and then Simmons, sounding startled, saying, “Good morning, David. Um, good morning, Carolina. We weren’t-- I mean, I was only expecting Washington.”

“Wash told me about the cat-sitting. I thought I’d come along and help,” Carolina says. There’s amusement but also a slight challenge to her voice, which is pretty rich coming from a witch who helped two fugitives escape from prison and also strangled the man standing in front of her. What, does she think Grif will be dumb enough to slip up and talk in front of a mortal? Sure, he did that once but there were extenuating circumstances.

Simmons laughs nervously. “That’s nice of you! Um, Wash, I should introduce you to Grif before I leave.” There’s the shuffling of feet, like everyone’s in the apartment now, and Simmons raises his voice, pitching it in the awkward way he used back during that first week when he thought Grif was a real cat. “I think he’s in the kitchen. Grif! Here, kitty, kitty!”

Grif peeks around the luggage. No one’s looking his way, and the door is still ajar. He bolts, listening hard for any sounds behind him. There is no way he’s sticking around to deal with a clueless mortal and a judgmental teen witch. He gets to the exit, silently thanking the crappy landlord who likes to illegally prop open the front door of the building instead of actually improve the building A/C, and then makes a beeline for Simmons’ car.

A few minutes later, he hears footsteps, multiple ones. From the shoes, Simmons, Carolina, and Washington are all at the car. The car shifts as Simmons opens the trunk and sets his luggage inside. “I’m sorry,” he says, laughing uncomfortably. “I guess Grif is feeling shy. He’ll come out when he gets hungry enough.”

“Or he’s sulking,” Carolina says. The other kid must give her a weird look, because her tone changes. “I mean, because cats notice when people pack. Maybe he doesn’t like the disruption to his routine. That’s a cat thing, right?”

“Yeah. He’ll come out when he’s ready,” Washington says. “You can trust us, Mr. Simmons!” There’s the sudden sound of something shaking, and Grif is annoyed at the way he perks up, his stupid cat instincts interested as Washington adds, “I even brought some cat treats with me!”

“Um,” Simmons says weakly. Grif can just imagine his expression. “That’s...very thoughtful of you.”

“Yeah, Wash. I bet he’ll love them,” Carolina adds, slightly choked.  

Grif fights down an irritated growl. Yeah, he’s definitely not sticking around. He’ll dumpster dive at the Slicery for pizza again if he has to. He can’t count on Carolina to actually feed him human food, though maybe she’d take pity on him. He’s not risking it.

He’s been counting on Simmons walking them back to the apartment, but Simmons says, “Here are the spare keys. Have a great weekend. I’ll be back Sunday night, so you’ll only need to feed him for breakfast and lunch.”

“Thanks, Mr. Simmons! Have a good trip!” Both pairs of shoes that don’t belong to Simmons move away, probably back towards the apartment.

Grif tenses. He’s probably lost his chance. Any second Simmons is going to close the trunk, get into the driver’s seat, and leave.

Instead Simmons sighs. There’s a faint sound, like he’s smacked his forehead. “Burgundy?” he mutters to himself, a harsh edge to his voice that has Grif’s fur bristling. It’s a tone Grif hasn’t heard in a while, not since that first week when Simmons would pace around the apartment and berate himself over his inability to find a hidden cat in his own apartment or about his clearly failed job interview. “What was I even thinking? Maybe Grif really is color blind. Navy blue is better. Burgundy will just-- I mean, it’s too _flamboyant_.” He spits out the last word. 

Simmons walks hurriedly back towards the apartment, still muttering to himself.

Grif crawls out from under the car, checking for anyone around. There’s no one. He hauls himself up and into the trunk, grunting with effort, paws scrabbling against the trunk carpet. The trunk smells freshly cleaned, like Simmons washed out his car in anticipation of the trip. The lemon scents make Grif sneeze. He squeezes himself around the luggage and then half-burrows behind the emergency kit that Simmons keeps there like some mortal survivalist weirdo. Then he curls up into as small a ball as possible and waits.

He shouldn’t have bothered. Simmons throws what’s probably another tie case into the trunk and slams the door shut with another self-deprecating, “Burgundy. Stupid.”

Grif regrets all of his life choices as the car starts and the luggage begins sliding around. He scrambles not to get squashed. This would be a really stupid way to lose life number two. He spends a few minutes seriously contemplating if he should just yell for Simmons and admit that he was trying to stow away.

He doesn’t. That stupid message from Simmons Senior is imprinted on his brain. The guy sounds like a dick, and the fact that no one else in the family has contacted Simmons the entire time Grif has known him means the rest of the family probably isn’t great. Plus, everyone knows family reunions suck, whether they’re mortals or witches. Simmons is going to need someone to complain to.

It’s still a _long_ drive to Boston.

 

* * *

 

The car stops. Grif, exhausted from dodging the luggage and the car rattling him practically out of his skin, halfheartedly squeezes himself back behind the emergency kit as the engine cuts off and the car trunk pops open. He closes his eyes against the bright sunlight as Simmons says, “You don’t have to-- I mean, I can carry my own luggage.”

“Mister Simmons insists, sir,” a bland voice says.

Grif blinks, from surprise as well as against the sun. That’s the bland, polite tone of servants. He’s pretty sure only rich mortals have servants now, and surely Simmons would have mentioned if his family was loaded. He resists the urge to poke his head out and see.

Simmons laughs uncomfortably. “Oh right. Yeah, of course. I’ll, uh, just go find my dad and let him know I’m here. I guess I’m in my usual room?”

“Yes, sir, the blue room. I believe Mr. Simmons and the rest of the family are out by the fire-pit.”

“There’s nothing breakable, so don’t worry about handling with care,” Simmons says with another weak laugh. “Oh! Actually I need my tie case, could I just--”

“Let me, sir,” the guy says, and then bends, his eyes meeting Grif’s. They both freeze. He’s clearly a servant, in a suit and tie even more muted than Simmons. His neutral expression gives way to genuine surprise as Grif blinks and tries to look as unembarrassed and cat-like as possible, and then the guy grimaces and whispers, “Don’t ask questions.” What is it with this family making people talk to themselves? The servant clearly dismisses Grif for the moment. He grabs the tie case and straightens. “Is this what you were looking for, sir?”

“Yes, thanks. I’ll, uh, just put it on and get out of your hair?” Simmons hasn’t hit hippie talk levels of discomfort yet, but he’s clearly all nerves. Grif can hear it in his stuttering and the way he laughs uncomfortably after every sentence.

“Yes, sir,” the servant says, back to blandness. Once Simmons is gone, the servant bends down and stares at Grif. He makes a face. “Okay, I don’t know if you’re supposed to be here, but you’re going in his room,” he mutters. “If you’re some stray, well, must have slipped in among the guests, right? Right.”

“Meow,” Grif agrees.

“Ugh,” the servant says, lifting Grif with a grunt. “Okay, you’re definitely his pet.”

Grif ignores the dig about his weight in favor of gawking at the house. When the message said beach house, Grif imagined something like his old home, a small, comfortable cottage that fit a single family. He thinks, too late, that that’s dumb. A cottage wouldn’t be the right place for a reunion, but the mansion is still a shock. How rich _is_ Simmons Senior?

“Wow,” he says, and then adds a hasty, “Wrow,” when the servant blinks down at him.

Grif’s still reeling as the servant carries him hurriedly into the mansion and deposits him into a spacious blue room whose windows face the beach. Simmons has never acted rich, from the way he complains about his utilities bills and Grif eating him out of house and home. Grif guesses penny-pinching is a rich person thing, but he also knows that Simmons isn’t faking his anxiety over his bills. Maybe his dad expects his kids to pull themselves up by their bootstraps? He’s beginning to realize how little he actually knows about Simmons’ family, other than his dad is clearly a jerk.

Grif jumps up on the bed and almost falls right off, unaccustomed to the softness. “Holy crap,” he says, now that he’s alone, and stares at the fluffy pillows, pristine until he drags one closer. There’s also a mint, unfortunately wrapped. He bats at it, and then decides he’ll get Simmons to unwrap it for him later. Simmons will do it, once he’s done yelling about Grif stowing away.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but between the bed and the most comfortable pillow he’s ever felt, he sinks like a stone.

 

* * *

 

Simmons smooths a hand down his tie and then takes a deep breath. He forces himself to stand still, trying to slow his racing heart. His father wants him here, he reminds himself. There’s no reason to feel like an interloper, or for this queasy feeling of anxiety that sits like a rock in his stomach.

He fixes what he hopes is a natural smile on his face and approaches where his father is standing with Daniel and Peter, all three drinking scotch. A silent servant offers him a snifter as he draws closer, and Simmons instinctively takes it, even though he’s always preferred wine. He clutches at his drink. “Good afternoon, sir.” His voice comes out steady despite his nerves.

His father glances his way. His eyes pass slowly over Simmons, but apparently he passes muster, because his father doesn’t look immediately disapproving. He knew that the navy blue tie was the right choice.

“Richard. Daniel was just telling me that Alice is expecting again.”

“Oh? Congratulations,” Simmons says, glancing at his older brother, who offers him a polite nod. He’s torn between relief that his father is catching him up on the family news, and wariness. Is there a hidden barb in the words that he’s missing? Is his father rebuking him for showing no interest in dating, much less marriage? He takes a hasty sip of the scotch and fights a grimace at the burn.

He’s about to ask whether they know the gender yet, when his father continues. “And Peter is engaged. Perhaps you saw the announcement in the Herald and the Globe. She’s one of the Drukers.”

“Oh,” Simmons repeats. He didn’t see the announcement. He avoids that part of the newspaper, tired of feeling sick whenever his family’s presence is mentioned at a host of charities and theatrical performances. His stomach sinks. He forces himself to smile wider. “Amazing. Congratulations.” He tips his snifter vaguely in Peter’s direction and almost spills his scotch.

There’s a pause, and then his father says, his voice too even to be trusted, “And what do you have to say for yourself? Anything exciting to announce? Your mother told me that you didn’t bring anyone with you.”

Heat crawls up Simmons’ throat. His brothers are watching him. He’s never been able to read them well, but he can’t help but feel like they’re silently judging him. “Oh. Well. I just finished my first year at Westbridge High School as a licensed teacher. I taught chemistry and physics, and led the robotics club, which made it to the semifinals, which is impressive, considering this was our first year competing-”

“Richard,” his father says. Here’s the disapproval, faint but clear. “If you have to claim something is impressive, you cheapen the accomplishment.”

Simmons bites the inside of his cheek so that he won’t visibly wince. He’s been here five minutes and has already rambled the way his father has always despised and said exactly the wrong thing. “Yes, sir. I misspoke.”

“Now, Dad said this is a public school?” Daniel asks. He’s too controlled to show much emotion, but his lips curl ever so slightly with distaste, as though he’s said a leper colony instead of public school.   

Simmons says slowly, “Yes, it’s public. But the students are enthusiastic--” Well, when he promises them explosions. “--and clever.” Well, when it comes to tricking or teasing Simmons.

“Perhaps some of them will attend Harvard,” Peter suggests.

The unexpected reminder of being the only Simmons son not to attend Harvard hits like a punch to the stomach. “Maybe!” Simmons hears the defensive note too late, and braces himself for his father’s rebuke.

His father only sighs, as though he’s given up on Simmons ever controlling his emotional nature. Shame burns in Simmons’ face as his father raises an eyebrow and says, “Nothing else? You’ve been out of touch for almost three years.”  

Simmons just stares for a second. Embarrassment chokes him, even though he knows his father is wildly misconstruing the last few years. He’s been ‘out of touch’ on his father’s insistence. His father’s cold words play on a grim loop in his brain. _I won’t allow you to waste family resources as you run away from your responsibilities. Daniel and Peter understand what they owe to the Simmons name. You’ll be welcomed home when you stop this hysterical tantrum and re-enroll in law school._

The stupid urge to tell his father the truth, that he’s been learning magic, that he's saved lives, wells in his chest. He swallows it back. At worst, his father will deliver him to the nearest insane asylum. At best…. He can’t even think of a best case scenario. “No, sir,” he says at last.

His father stares pensively into his scotch. Simmons almost gasps in surprise as his father says, “Well, you still managed to surprise me, Richard. Your mother and I expected you to return home within weeks, but instead you persevered and earned your little certificate. Perhaps you are more of a Simmons than I thought.”

Tentative happiness chases some of the embarrassment away. Simmons takes a sip of his scotch to steady himself before he answers. “Um, thank you, sir.”

His father nods. “Now, speaking of your mother, I know that she wished to see you.” He raises his hand and signals.

His mother approaches. She has a half-finished glass of wine in her hand. Judging by the slow care in her walk, she’s well into her third or fourth glass. She smiles and leans up to press a dry kiss to Simmons’ cheek. “Hello, dear,” she says. She’s never been particularly warm, but he thinks she means it when she adds, “I’m glad you could wrest yourself from work and remembered that family comes first.”

Simmons hesitates, wondering if he should correct her. “Thank you. No wresting was necessary, actually. I wasn’t one of the teachers needed for summer school this year, so I have most of the summer free.” He hesitates again, about to suggest that he could stay a few extra days. Grif would forgive him after a few apology pizzas.

His mother keeps smiling. “Isn’t that nice? You get a paid vacation! Well, being a teacher has some benefits after all.” She turns, not quite dismissing Simmons but focusing on his father. “Teachers are an unappreciated pillar of the community. Perhaps we should investigate a few charities within Boston that work with education?”

Her voice turns cool and clinical. From the familiar glint in her eyes, Simmons suspects that she’s already envisioning how to add education reform to the family’s endless philanthropic endeavors. She has always imagined the family as the next Rockefellers or Carnegies, and for the most part, his father has always given her free rein with money set aside for charities. Then she blinks. She taps a perfectly manicured finger against her cheek and refocuses on Simmons.

“Oh, that reminds me. Richard, dear, we’re expecting a photojournalist for tonight’s dinner. She wants to take a few pictures for a small spread in Boston Magazine and interview Peter and his lovely fiancée about their engagement. Did your father tell you she’s a Druker? Peter made an excellent choice. Did you need the housekeeper to iron your dinner suit?”

The final question, said in his mother’s unchanging pleasant voice, catches Simmons off-guard. He blinks. He actually took all of his suits to be dry-cleaned and pressed beforehand, but suddenly it seems like a foolish expense. His mother only trusts her housekeeper’s work. “Um, I already had them pressed for the reunion, but you know best. Um. I don’t want to mess up the pictures.”

“I know you don’t,” his mother agrees, patting his arm. “I’ll have her come to your room two hours before dinner.”

 

* * *

 

Simmons excuses himself eventually. He’s not used to drinking scotch anymore, and drinking it on a mostly empty stomach after being too nervous to eat breakfast is just inviting disaster. The last thing he needs to do is disappoint his father further by being openly tipsy in front of the family.

He slips into his room, loosening his tie and trying to choose between the other two suits he brought for dinner. Maybe he should just leave it to the housekeeper. She’s the longest-running staff. She knows his mother’s exacting tastes.

Then he hears a very familiar snuffling sound.

He stares. Grif is sprawled across a pillow, sound asleep.   

Simmons is hit by relief so strong that his knees go weak. Or maybe that’s the scotch. For another few seconds he just gawks, half-overwhelmed by the ridiculous urge to shake Grif awake and tell him all about the last few hours.

Then panic replaces the weird, inexplicable relief. Grif is here. And if he’s here, then the servant who took the luggage from the car knows about him. And if the servant knows, then all the other servants know. And if all the other servants know, then it’s only a matter of time before his father learns that Simmons apparently brought his cat to the family reunion.

Simmons takes a few steps towards the bed and flops down beside Grif. He buries his face in the other pillow and groans miserably. The queasy feeling in his stomach gets worse, and he groans again. Then he lifts his head just enough to see Grif blinking drowsily at him. Their eyes meet. Simmons rolls to his side so that he’s facing Grif.

“Uh, hey,” Grif says. He licks the tip of his nose.  “Nice place. Your family win the lottery?”

“No,” Simmons says, and shoves Grif off the bed.

There’s a dull thud and then a beat of silence. Two paws appear, and then Grif’s face, his ears flat against his head. “What the hell, Simmons?”  

“What do you mean, what the hell? That’s what I should ask you!” Simmons snaps, and then realizes that he might actually be tipsy after all. That, or he’s too angry to be coherent. Either way, Grif pauses in leaping back onto the bed to blink at him. Simmons scowls. “How are you here?”

“Hid in your trunk,” Grif says, like it was the obvious solution. He leaps back on the bed but keeps his distance, like he thinks Simmons is going to push him again. “Come on, buddy. Did you really think I wanted to hang with that Washington kid?”

“No, but I didn’t think you hated the idea enough to sneak into my car!”

“Well, I did,” Grif says. When Simmons doesn’t make a move towards him, he resettles on the pillow. “But seriously, dude. We’ve been roommates for over a year, and I only _now_ find out you’re loaded? What’s the family money in?”

“Real estate,” Simmons says, before he remembers that he’s mad at Grif. “And it’s my family who has money, not me. You’re still costing me an arm and a leg as a freeloader, you know. Though maybe after this reunion…..” He stops, struggling not to cling too tightly to the tentative hope. His father invited him to the reunion and complimented him. Maybe he actually understands why Simmons chose his own path. Maybe he’s been accepted back. “It’s complicated, okay? And you're not supposed to be here, and you're making everything even _more_ complicated!”

Grif blinks at him. “Right, complicated. I got it.” He sounds weirdly pensive, but doesn’t elaborate on what he means even when Simmons narrows his eyes. Grif stretches out one paw to tap at Simmons’ arm. “So what’s the game plan? Or, well, what was the game plan to appease Daddy Do-- Daddy Dearest before you realized I was here?”

Simmons sighs. “I didn’t really have one,” he admits. “I just...thought if he invited me, then maybe we could talk, he would see how well I was doing and understand why…. Why I am where I am, and believe that….” _I’m not a failure and a disappointment_. He doesn’t say that. The words lodge in his throat like a stone. He shrugs, half-expecting Grif to tease him about his repeated failures with magic or the fact that his only friend is a cat (unless Donut counts, who keeps inviting Simmons over for wine and cheese nights).

“Okay,” Grif says. His mismatched eyes study Simmons. “Here’s my advice. Just suck up to him.”

“Great advice, Grif,” Simmons says, rolling his eyes. “I was definitely planning on doing the opposite and be rude to my father.”

“Shut up.” There’s no heat in Grif’s voice. “You know what I mean. Just smile and nod and get through the weekend. Then we can go back to Westbridge with a little bit more money. Oh, how rich _is_ your family? Could we buy that edible gold that rich jerks eat? I always wanted to try expensive food.”

Simmons shakes his head, but some of the tension eases from his shoulders. “Of course you immediately think of expensive food to eat.”

“Who wouldn’t? Come on, tell me. Did you eat lobster every day as a kid? How rich is your dad? How many siblings between you and your inheritance?”

Simmons leans back against the pillow. “You’re showing your age again,” he says. “People don’t pass all their money to the firstborn son anymore. I mean, okay, Daniel will inherit the business, but Peter and I will be on the board and get shares and an inheritance. And uh, we’re pretty rich? But we’re not old money. It was my grandfather who made some good investments and started the real estate company. We can supposedly trace our family back to the Mayflower, though, so my parents are big on, uh, establishing the family name and making connections with other Boston families.”

He hesitates. He could say more, but the thought of elaborating brings back his earlier queasiness.

“So what you’re saying is you ate lobster every day,” Grif says.

Simmons snorts. The urge to tell Grif all about being the family disappointment passes. “No, Grif.” Then he remembers why he came to the bedroom. He shoots up and out of bed, startling Grif into a short hiss. “Sorry, I-- the housekeeper is coming to look at my suits, so I should-- Um. Have them ready for her.” He looks with dismay at the suit he’s wearing, which somehow already has some cat fur on its sleeve.

Grif resettles himself into a comfortable cat loaf shape, tucking his paws under him. He looks amused now. “Go ahead. I want to see how rich people live.”

“Shut up,” Simmons says, rolling his eyes, and then jumps as someone knocks on his door. He points in Grif’s direction and whispers, nervousness twisting his stomach, “Don’t talk.”

“Meow,” Grif says sarcastically.

 

* * *

 

One of the most annoying parts of being a familiar is the inability to keep track of time. Grif doesn’t know if Simmons has been at his family dinner for thirty minutes or three hours. What he _does_ know is that he’s starving. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and that was forever ago.

A quick trip to the kitchen and back won’t cause a problem, as long as he’s careful. He can be stealthy when he wants to be. No one will notice him, and everything will be fine. When he nears the dining room, which he knows is ridiculously huge from the brief view he got as he was carried past earlier, he pauses. For a minute there’s only quiet conversation and the clinking of silverware before a man says, “Let’s toast Peter and his wonderful future bride.” Grif darts past during the ensuing round of congratulations.

There’s a lot of people in the kitchen when he peeks inside, wait staff and kitchen staff mingling together and chatting as they prep the next course.

“How’s Boston? Glad to see you survived another year and didn’t get yourself fired,” someone asks, a teasing note in his voice, and someone else answers with the same teasing tone, “Busy. How was sitting around for months here with nothing to do but dust and chase away trespassers?”

As the conversations continue, Grif realizes that Simmons Senior has brought his staff from his home in Boston to help with the reunion. And apparently has staff just for the beach mansion. Ugh, rich people. He weighs his chances about getting in unseen, and slips inside, keeping to the wall. He sets his sights on a plate of appetizers, abandoned in the far corner of the kitchen.

He’s almost there when someone says, with a dismissive little sniff that has Grif’s tail twitching immediately, “Mister Richard is as high-strung as ever. Imagine, bringing a cat instead of a date!”

“Well,” a young voice says, a little hesitant, “you can hardly blame him after--”

“You know what Mister Simmons thinks of that. Mister Richard overreacted.” There’s a reproof in that voice, and an edge of warning. Apparently no one is allowed to disagree with Simmons Senior in this place.

That hesitant voice says hastily, “Right, right, of course. It’s just a shame, that’s all.”

Grif can’t tell which one was insulting Simmons, so he shoots everyone a general glare from his position hidden under a table. His tail keeps twitching as someone else says, “I’m surprised he was invited at all. It’s been, what, two years? Three?”

“Mister Simmons believes in family,” says the owner of that obnoxious sniff. She does it again, adding, “Not that Mister Richard deserves it, but I’m certain his father will give him a second chance.”

“Maybe he’ll work with Mrs. Simmons. She was saying something earlier about educational charities,” someone says, and the conversation turns to the work Mrs. Simmons has apparently been doing with some health initiative in Boston, and then to the dress Mrs. Simmons recently wore to the opera.

Grif is irritated but also feeling guilty. It’s not an emotion he’s comfortable with, but he also knows when he’s screwed up. Most people would have senses of humor about a cat stowing away in a car, but apparently none of those people are in this mansion. He remembers the strain in Simmons’ voice earlier, the white lines of tension around his mouth as he told Grif that he was making everything more complicated.

He steals and eats some of the appetizers, but it’s on autopilot. He doesn’t really see a good way to apologize. It’s not like he can do a memory spell to the entire household and make them forget he was ever there. He guesses he should just act like the most regular, boring cat he can, and hope everyone stops being jerks about him to Simmons.

“Well, the dessert course is off to the dining room,” someone says. There’s a few scattered claps, but mostly relieved groans. “Good job, everyone! We might all survive this reunion without anyone getting fired.”

“There’s still tomorrow,” someone says dryly.

Grif sidles towards the door amid uncomfortable laughter. He’s almost there when someone grabs him around the stomach and tries to pick him up. He growls instinctively even as the person gasps, “God, he weighs a ton!”

“What? Oh, for goodness sake, get that cat out of my kitchen before _I_ get fired!”

Grif squirms as he’s picked up and hugged to a woman’s chest, cradled like a baby. His cat instincts hate the position, his feet up and his belly exposed to anyone around. He keeps squirming, fighting another growl. Simmons doesn’t need anyone saying he has a dangerous pet.  

“Let’s get you out of here before she turns you a surprise course,” the woman mutters. Then she yelps and drops him after he kicks her in the stomach. He starts to bolt, but she’s faster than he expected, grabbing him around the neck with one hand and petting clumsily at his head with the other. “Hey, kitty. Well, Mister Richard hasn’t let you miss any meals, has he? At least he’s generous, even with that teacher’s salary.”

Grif tries to sidles backwards, out of reach, and she clicks her tongue at him. “Ungrateful. I saved you from being turned into soup!”

He probably should just let her take him back to Simmons’ room. But her hand is a little too tight around his neck, and it takes everything in him not to swat at her, claws out. He growls instead, a warning sound that makes the woman flinch and let go. He bolts, ignoring her cry of dismay.

He’s so busy running that it takes him a second to realize that he’s made a wrong turn. Why is this stupid mansion so big? He slinks along the wall, trying to avoid people and figure out where Simmons’ bedroom is.

His attention is caught by a familiar voice.

“You wanted to speak privately, sir?” Simmons asks. He trips a little over his words, his nerves obvious even without Grif in the same room to see his face.

Grif stops. After making Simmons’ weekend complicated and earning him mockery even from the servants, Grif probably shouldn’t add spying on him with his dad to his list of crimes, but he also desperately wants to hear Simmons’ attempt at sucking up and getting back into his dad’s good graces. Curiosity killed the cat, but he still has eight lives left. And what Simmons doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Grif creeps to the slightly ajar door, peering inside. All the bookshelves suggest a study; Simmons and a man who has to be his father, with the same hair and eyes, are standing beside a desk. 

Even from the hallway, Grif can see Simmons twisting his hands behind his back. Grif tries to focus on Simmons Senior’s answer, but he’s distracted. There’s something _weird_ about this space. It makes his whiskers prickle, like there’s static in the air. The room feels familiar, though he’s never been here in his entire life. He steps into the room without thinking about it, and then hastily conceals himself behind a potted plant.

The sensation is distracting, and he almost misses Simmons’ father saying, “I meant what I said earlier. Your perseverance is impressive.”

“Thank you, sir.” The uncertain pride in Simmons’ face is almost painful to see. “I tried to follow one of the family rules. A Simmons sets goals and accomplishes them.”

“Yes, and so you have,” Simmons Senior says. Simmons brightens, but Grif’s bullshit meter goes off despite the distraction of his prickling whiskers. “But there is a fine line between perseverance and bullheadedness. This teaching position at a public high school is beneath you. You could do so much more with your degree.”   

“I-- More with my degree?”

“Of course,” Simmons Senior says. “You shouldn’t waste your time in some suburb. Come back home. I just had dinner with the chancellor of an incredible charter school in Boston. They have an open position for a chemistry teacher. You would be a perfect fit.” He chuckles. The sound grates on Grif’s ears. “In fact, you’re overqualified, after your insistence on getting a Master’s before law school.”

“Oh.” Simmons is smiling now, a pleased flush to his cheeks. “Thank you, sir. I mean, I already signed a contract with Westbridge High for the fall, so I--”

Simmons Senior waves a dismissive hand. “Peter will look at your contract. There must be a way to break it. You can’t squander this opportunity, especially when Daniel’s oldest is getting ready for school. Having family there certainly wouldn’t hurt his chances at admittance. And I understand both the Epsteins and Barsamians send their children there.”

The light and smile goes from Simmons’ face. “Daniel’s oldest,” he repeats flatly. “He’s _three_.” There’s an unexpected bite to his voice that makes Grif blink. “It’s a little early to think about charter schools, isn’t it?”

Simmons Senior frowns. “I’m offering you a chance to make things right. Your little rebellion has cost this family enough. Do you know how embarrassed your mother is at the little digs and slights in the magazines and newspapers commenting on your continued absence? We have made our name as a family company, and then you go off on your pointless little adventure. The least you could do is use your teaching certificate to the family’s advantage.”

Now it’s not just the light and the smile that’s gone. Simmons is blanched an awful white color, the same pallor he was when he almost killed himself doing magic. Grif feels his fur bristle at the bitterness in Simmons’ voice. “I’m a Simmons, so of course I should do what’s the best for the family. I mean, if I can persevere and get my teaching certificate, I can persevere and get Daniel’s oldest a spot at the charter school years early, right?”

“Don’t be snide, Richard,” Simmons Senior says. “I don’t think you realize what a compromise I’m making here. After you wasted thousands of dollars dropping out of law school and having your little crisis, I could have washed my hands of you. Most would have, but I understand the importance of family.”

Simmons’ entire face twists. “Little crisis?” he says, incredulous. “Sir, I almost _died_.” His voice cracks, loud as a gunshot.

Grif takes a step closer before he realizes what he’s doing, wanting to rub his head against Simmons’ leg, and then hides back behind the plant. His thoughts are whirling, and it’s only luck that the two men are too distracted by each other to hear Grif’s agitated tail drumming against the wood floor. This conversation is not going the way he thought it would. And that’s even before the freaking bombshell of Simmons nearly dying.  

“Oh, don’t exaggerate,” Simmons Senior says. A hint of irritation breaks through his calm facade. “The doctors assured me that you were in no real danger, just a few broken bones and a concussion.”

“That’s not--” Simmons sucks in a breath. He says in a small, tight voice, “I told you, sir. Getting into that car accident, being stuck in that hospital bed, it made me think about what I wanted to do with my life. That’s not being a lawyer for the company. It’s instilling a love of science in kids, maybe even inspiring them to become scientists, I just-- I couldn’t be a lawyer, sir.”

There’s a long silence as Grif absorbs that new fact too. He almost laughs at the ridiculousness of it. Simmons gets flustered on a daily basis by his teenage students, and his father really expected him to handle a jury?  

Simmons Senior stares, disapproval obvious in the thinned lips and narrowed eyes. “Really, Richard. Your dramatics are just as exasperating as they were the first time.”

“That’s not fair,” Simmons says, and then flinches the instant the words are out of his mouth, as though he wants to take them back. His shoulders go up. He says, quieter, “I’m just trying to explain my decision, sir.”

Simmons Senior sighs. He takes a step around the desk and pours himself a glass of something. He looks down at the glass. The disapproval is replaced by a grim look. He says slowly, “I thought for a moment you might come to your senses. I was clearly too optimistic. But then, you were never like your brothers, were you? They have always understood what they owe to the family, while you let your emotions rule you. You couldn't even bring a date! I suppose you still haven’t found a woman you’ll be happy with.” There’s a hint of sarcasm in that last sentence, and the sickly white of Simmons’ face shifts to a sudden violent blush. “That has always been your greatest flaw, Richard. Your selfishness. You only think of your own happiness.”

His voice rises, turns sharper. “I pulled several strings to get you this opportunity. Be grateful that I am indulging your selfishness. You will be working with the children of Boston’s elite. You _will_ break that contract with that public school. You _will_ take this job. I am offering you one _singular_ chance to make amends for the absolute _failure_ you have become!"

Grif waits for Simmons to keep arguing. Then he sees the look on Simmons’ face. This bullshit is actually working on him. The growl that’s been building in his chest escapes, and both men jerk their heads in his direction as he launches himself forward.  

Simmons makes a startled sound as Grif jumps onto his shoulder. He lurches a little, one hand going up instinctively to brace Grif.

Grif hisses at Simmons Senior. Simmons needs an out to this conversation, and Grif is happy to provide one, even if his first choice was to claw the asshole’s eyes out instead of settling for hissing.

Simmons Senior takes a hasty step back. “Oh, for goodness sake, Richard, take that animal back to your room,” he snaps. “Unless you can’t even handle the responsibility of a pet. We’ll discuss this further when you’re thinking clearly.”

Simmons still doesn’t say a word. He just gives a hard, jerky nod as he obeys, his hand still on Grif’s back. The strange prickling of Grif’s whiskers fades as Simmons steps out into the hallway, but he doesn’t get a chance to wonder about that because Simmons whispers harshly, “Are you _trying_ to ruin my life?”

“Meow,” Grif says, irritated that he can’t argue when Simmons Senior might still be within hearing distance. He bites his tongue until the bedroom door slams shuts behind them. “Please tell me you didn’t buy all that crap.”

Simmons ignores the question, dumping Grif onto the bed. He grabs at his hair, yanking the strands out of order as he starts to pace back and forth. His face is still that sickly white. He looks furious and miserable. “I asked you to do _one_ thing, Grif: stay in the room. And you couldn’t even do that!”  

Grif wishes that he could roll his eyes. “Dude, you’re not making this about me. We’re talking about your crappy dad.”

Simmons makes an inarticulate sound of outrage. “My father is not _crappy_ , Grif! He-- he just-- he has expectations and I keep failing him, and--” He’s stammering so much that Grif can’t even understand him, though at least he’s stopped pacing to glare.

Grif wants to be human again with a bone-deep intensity, because then he could grab Simmons by the shoulders and shake him until he listens. He hisses in frustration. “Your dad is a jerk. Trust me, I know crappy parents.” Bitterness slips into his voice, and he twitches his tail in annoyance at both himself and at Simmons Senior.

Simmons blinks at him. Some of the anger and misery fades from his face, replaced by a familiar curiosity. Then he sighs, his shoulders slumping, and sits down on the bed next to Grif. “He just wants what’s best for me,” he says quietly.

Grif licks the tip of his nose. He chokes back a few insults, because that’s not what Simmons will want to hear right now. Still, all of his fur stands on edge at the hopelessness in Simmons’ voice. He curls up against Simmons’ hip, feeling the tension radiating off him. “That’s not what it sounded like. He didn’t care about your job because it didn’t benefit him, he made fun of you when you tried to talk about an accident where you almost died--”

“I only broke a few bones,” Simmons says, but he rubs at his arm.

There are scars there, Grif knows, pale ones on Simmons’ arm and leg that Grif has never really thought too much about. Mortals are fragile, they tend to have scars. He never considered the story behind them. Now he thinks of Simmons in a hospital bed, limbs in casts, stuck with his father telling him he was overreacting. Grif resettles into Simmons’ lap then, paws kneading the scarred leg. “I never thought I’d say this, but screw the money. This isn’t worth it. Let’s just get out of here.”  

Simmons rests a hand on Grif’s back. When Grif twists his head, he sees a weird look on Simmons’ face, a mixture of emotions. Grif can’t figure them out. After a second, Simmons sighs and shakes his head. “I can’t leave early.” He says it almost apologetically. “That journalist is still here. My mom invited her for after-dinner cocktails. I can’t--” He stops, biting his lip.  “I can’t cause a scene.”

“You raise an interesting point,” Grif says, who doesn’t think much of a woman who’d be married to Simmons Senior. “Counterpoint: screw them and screw this. You don’t need to stay in touch with family when they make you feel like crap.”

He wants to take that last sentence back, because Simmons blinks and gets the same curious look as before, clearly filing that away as stuff to pester Grif about later. Ugh. This is why he doesn’t do feelings and encouragement.

They both jump as the house phone rings on the dresser. Simmons leans over and grabs it. “Um, hello, this is Richard,” he says slowly.

“Mr. Simmons!” The voice is vaguely familiar. Grif realizes it’s that Washington kid as the panicked babbling ensues. “Um, Mr. Simmons, I thought your cat was just being shy, but I’ve left two meals out for him and he hasn’t eaten anything. I don’t think he’s in the apartment? I don’t know how he got out! Carolina and I are going to search the neighborhood, so, uh, is there a particular blanket he likes to sleep on, or is it okay to go through your laundry and use some of your clothes as scent markers outside for him, or--”

Simmons looks guilty. “David! David, it’s okay. I should’ve called you. Somehow Grif hid in my car trunk. He’s here with me.”

Meanwhile, Grif presses his head against Simmons’ stomach to muffle his snickering. He wonders if Carolina realized he had gone with Simmons, or if she was making plans on going back to the Slicery and try to find him there.

“Oh, thank god,” Washington says. His relieved sigh is audible. “Um, I’ll wrap up the food and put it in your fridge, I guess?”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Simmons says. He grimaces at the phone, still looking guilty. “I’m sorry for making you worry. I should have called and explained. I’ll pay you for today, since you wasted your time, okay?”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Wash starts, and Simmons says firmly, “I’m paying you for today.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mr. Simmons. Have a good trip.”

Grif doesn’t bother to muffle his laughter once Simmons puts the phone back on the hook. “Man, you’re such a sucker. That kid didn’t do anything, and you’re still gonna pay him?”

Simmons rolls his eyes. At least he’s looking less wan now, even if there’s a tinge of exasperation in his voice when he says, “He wasted a whole day cat-sitting a cat who wasn't there. And he sounded like he was having a heart attack, so yes, Grif, I’m going to pay him for day.”

“It’s your money,” Grif says. He settles more firmly in Simmons’ lap. He can feel the instant Simmons remembers he’s at a reunion with his awful family; his entire body tenses up. Grif licks the tip of his nose. He doesn’t really want to encourage Simmons with the whole magic thing, not after he half-killed himself, but he also doesn’t want Simmons miserable and unhappy the entire weekend.

He sighs. “There was something weird in your dad’s study.”

Simmons blinks down at him. “Something weird? What do you mean?”

“Something _weird_ ,” Grif repeats. “Like, magic weird. And before you ask, I don’t know what it is. It felt sort of familiar? Definitely magic.”  A sudden thought strikes him. He twitches his ears in amusement and says, deadpan, “Hey, Simmons, you’d tell me if your dad was a witch, right?”

Simmons laughs, a brittle laugh, but a genuine one. “Yeah, Grif. That would’ve come up before, I promise.” Then what Grif is saying actually seems to register. His entire face lights up. “Are you sure it’s magic? I mean, my father does collect rare books. Maybe one of them is magical? Would you sense it normally, or is this a witch familiar thing? I wish I’d brought my notebook….”

“One question at a time,” Grif says, but it’s halfhearted at best. Simmons smiles at him, looking better already from the distraction, and he flicks his tail, thinking hard. “I mean, I guess we always feel magic stuff if we concentrate? But this felt stronger. Maybe it’s an animal thing.”

Simmons is clearly dying to ask a million questions. It’s almost a surprise that he limits himself to one. “So if I took you back to the study, you could figure out what’s magical in it?”

“Uh, maybe,” Grif says. He jumps off Simmons’ lap a second before Simmons stands, vibrating with excitement.

“Let’s go!”

 

* * *

 

“Do you sense it?” Simmons asks. He feels almost dizzy with excitement and simultaneously sick with nerves. He’s never been in his father’s study without permission. He keeps expecting his father to burst in and start shouting at any second.

“Yeah,” Grif says. He doesn’t stop prowling around the room. His tail keeps curling into a question mark and then twitching, as though to show his confusion. He heaves himself onto his back legs and leans up to sniff at some of the books. “I don’t think it’s a book.” He turns and sniffs at the ground, acting like a bloodhound. He seems to be weaving, chasing that feeling, until he bumps his head against the wall. “Yeah, it’s not a thing in this room. It… Uh. It feels more like a trail?” He sounds confused.

“A trail? Does magic leave a trace?”

Grif twitches his tail, looking unusually thoughtful. “Not for long, but yeah, powerful spells leave fumes, sort of? But I don’t think it’s that.”

“Could you follow the trail?”

Now Grif’s thoughtfulness turns to reluctance. “I mean, yeah….”

“Which way is it going?” Simmons presses, even as a small, quiet voice in the back of his head reminds him that this is his father’s house, and that he shouldn’t go wandering around with his cat, especially not when his father is already angry with him.

Some of his excitement fades. He gets a little queasy, remembering the argument. Every single conversation with his father ends in disappointment, and yet he’s still surprised by it every time. He takes a deep breath. At least now he knows something his father doesn’t. He knows that magic exists. “We should figure this out,” he says, and there must be something in his face that convinces Grif he won’t take no for an answer, because Grif sighs loudly.

“Fine.”

Grif follows the invisible trail, and Simmons follows him, acutely aware that any second a servant might turn the corner and spot them. He’s so busy worrying about the servants that he doesn’t realize where Grif is leading them until they turn a corner and it’s too late.

“Uh,” Grif says at the sight of Simmons’ entire family in the living room, all of whom are staring at them both, and then coughs. “Meow.” He takes a slow step back, bumping against Simmons’ legs.

Everything seems to slow to a crawl. Simmons has all the time in the world to watch his family’s expressions shift from surprise to chagrin. Except for his father, of course, who smiles tightly and says smoothly for the photographer, “My youngest is devoted to his students and animals. But perhaps he’s forgotten that his nephew is allergic to cats.”

His father’s voice is wryly amused, and his entire body language is affable as he walks towards Simmons, but Simmons knows that his father is furious. He fixes a weak smile on his face and wishes he’d used a lint roller before he and Grif had gone on their magic thing quest.

His father rests a hand on Simmons’ shoulder. He’s still smiling, but his eyes are cold as he whispers, “Do I have to get a cage for your animal? Get it out of here immediately.”

The idea of Grif being in a cage makes Simmons see red. He’s used to being frustrated with his father and hurt that he thinks Simmons besmirching the family name by becoming something other other than a lawyer. He’s not used to this hot anger. “He doesn’t need a cage,” he says, barely remembering to whisper. His argument is at odds with the low hiss that escapes Grif, and the way Grif’s tail is starting to bristle.

His father doesn’t frown, not with the photographer watching, but his eyes narrow. “That thing has hissed at me twice now.”

Simmons crouches, picking Grif up. At least Grif doesn’t struggle, just hangs like dead weight in his arms and fixes his father with a malevolent glare.

“Oh, before you go,” the journalist says, and Simmons freezes. The woman smiles, her camera at the ready. “Your parents tell me that you’re thinking of moving back to Boston.” Simmons’ expression must change, because she looks puzzled. “Now that you’ve gained experience working with the less privileged in Westbridge?”

“Is that what they told you,” Simmons says flatly. He stares at his father, unable to believe that his father would leave their argument and then tell the journalist that he’s probably still returning home. Does his father think he can embarrass Simmons into agreeing to that charter school job? He can feel a sudden pressure in his head, like he’s so angry that his brain is seizing up. “That’s still under consideration. I enjoy my work.”   

“I’m sorry. I must have misunderstood,” the journalist says, her puzzled look growing. “I was under the impression that you were seriously considering a job at one of the charter schools in the city.”

“My son feels his responsibilities to his students keenly,” his father says as Simmons chokes on his anger. “It’s admirable. But of course his mother would like him closer to home. A two to three hour drive means infrequent visits--”

Simmons laughs. The high, incredulous sound earns him a warning look from his father. He ignores it. He’s so furious he’s shaking and hot all over. The pressure in his head feels worse. It builds, filling up the room. He can almost taste it, the pressure heavy and thick in his lungs when he drags in a deep breath. He barely hears his mother say quickly, “But it’s Richard’s decision, of course. We’re so proud of him for forging his own path.”  

“Quit the hysterics and go to your room,” his father whispers. “I’ll speak with you there.”

“Don’t follow me,” Simmons says through clenched teeth, putting all his strength behind the demand. It twists in his mouth, and as he finishes speaking the pressure in his head and thick in the air goes with it, leaving just a faint lightheadedness behind. He blinks, surprise momentarily overriding his fury. He has the weirdest feeling of déjà vu, like he’s experienced this before.

His father fixes another smile on his face, his eyes still blazing. He starts to turn. “As his parents, we want--” He stumbles, his arms pinwheeling ridiculously in the air, and then he falls flat on his face in front of everyone.

When Simmons stares, he realizes why his father fell. His father’s shoelaces have been tied together. He laughs. He can’t help it. The laughter, both hysterical and ecstatic, rings through the otherwise silent room as everything clicks into place. That’s what felt so familiar.  He remembers this from the teleportation spell. _He did magic again_. But how? What made the difference? Is the success tied to strong emotion or--

“Meow,” Grif says, squirming in his arms. There’s a pointed tone to his fake meow.

Simmons blinks, realizing that he’s been laughing while Daniel and Peter bent to help their father up. He flushes. Some of his euphoria ebbs. “I’ll, um, take my cat back to my room,” he says, and retreats.

As soon as they get back to the room, Grif wiggles out of his grip and jumps onto the bed. He turns and stares, his ears flicking up and sideways. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out, like he’s too surprised to speak.  

Simmons clings to his giddy happiness. It means he doesn’t have to think about the unpleasant conversation he’s going to have with his family once the journalist leaves. Besides, it’s easy to focus on his excitement. He beams at Grif. “You saw that, right? I did magic again!”

“Yeah,” Grif says. “You did.” He doesn’t sound enthusiastic, and Simmons is about to frown when Grif moves to the edge of the bed and pats Simmons with a paw. “You gonna keel over on me like you did with those kids, or are you okay?”  

“Oh, um.” Simmons takes stock of himself. He’s a little lightheaded, but it’s not the same painful intensity he felt when he did the teleportation spell. Otherwise he feels fine. “A little dizzy, but--”

“Sit down,” Grif says. When Simmons obeys, Grif sits in his lap and gives him one more searching look. Apparently satisfied that Simmons isn’t going to pass out, he relaxes. “Dude, I can’t believe your third spell was tying your dad’s shoelaces. That was great!”

“Yeah.”

“Did you see his face?” Grif asks. A low rumble fills Simmons’ ears and he realizes that Grif is purring loudly. “And he’s not gonna know what happened, ever, because you were standing there holding me the entire time! God, I bet that’ll drive him crazy.” Grif sounds pleased.  

Simmons can’t ignore his father’s impending anger anymore. He grimaces. “Right.” The panic is starting to push out the giddiness. “Yeah. I saw his face. And everyone else’s. You know, when I laughed.” He groans. “I can’t believe I laughed. He’s going to be so mad.”

“Eh, screw him. He was totally trying to box you in a corner and guilt trip you into taking that charter school job.”

Simmons doesn’t know how to respond to that. It’s hard to agree, even when he knows Grif’s right. He’s saved from answering by a knock on the door. He tenses. “Come in,” he calls. He’s half-expecting his father to storm inside, but it’s Daniel and Peter instead.

Peter rolls his eyes at the sight of Grif in his lap. “I suppose you’re happy, humiliating Dad in front of the press.”

For a second Simmons is struck by cold panic. Had Peter seen? But Peter isn’t talking about the spell. He’s talking about the argument. He puts a hand on Grif’s head, reassuring himself with the fur under his fingertips. “No, I’m not happy,” he says. “But Dad was trying to force me into that charter school jo--”

“I really don’t get you,” Daniel says. He shakes his head. Unlike Peter, he has better control over his emotions. He doesn’t do anything as gauche as roll his eyes. He has their mother’s coloring, blond hair and hazel eyes, but he wears their father’s disapproving look when he adds, “That job will pay more and give you better benefits than your little public school--”

“Boys,” their mother says from the hallway. “Richard and I need to talk.” When Peter looks ready to argue, their mother’s voice turns to steel, “Alone.”

She sighs once the door closes behind them. “Oh, Richard,” she says, in an all-too familiar tone of disappointment. Simmons feels his face warm instinctively, even before she shakes her head and says, “I hardly recognize you anymore. To openly defy your father? Where did this willpower come from?” Most people would consider willpower a positive trait. His mother says the word with a faint moue of distaste. “I think I convinced the journalist not to publish that photo of your father tripping, but there’s a high chance she’ll mention the incident in the article. Certainly she’ll mention the obvious tension between you and your father.”

Simmons bites his lip. “There wouldn’t have been tension if he hadn’t taken my acceptance of the job as a given. I told him I was happy where I was--”

His mother looks at him like he’s speaking in tongues. He didn’t expect her to understand, but the disappointment still stings when she says, “If that’s how you feel, you should give your father some space before you say something you’ll regret. If you would at least consider that charter school job, perhaps--”

“I won’t,” Simmons says quietly. He feels sick when he says it, but also strangely relieved. How had he even been tempted to take that charter job? He can’t go back to that, fighting for his father’s approval, playing at the perfect son for the press. The very thought of it makes him shudder. “I like my job. I like Westbridge. I like my students, well, most of them. I’m not taking that charter school job. Tell Dad I’m sorry and I--” _Appreciate what he was trying to do,_ he almost says, before he realizes that’s a lie. “Tell him I’m sorry.” His chest is tight by the time he finishes.

“Well!” his mother says. She laughs. It’s not an amused sound. “And to think I believed you were the one most eager for your father’s approval. Apparently I misread you.” She shakes her head. “I’ll tell your father.”   

She starts to leave, and then pauses. When she glances at him again, her look is like an unexpected slap. He knows that look. It’s her calculating, ‘how do I solve this problem’ look. “If you insist on being independent, we should at least discuss how to spin your life in Westbridge.” She taps her cheek, her eyes narrowing. “There’s still something in the education aspect. Perhaps we can say that you feel a calling to serve the community?”

She’s redefined him as a complication to the family, Simmons realizes. He swallows. He could try to argue, but what would be the point? He resigns himself to a nod.

“And your experience has been invaluable in the family’s philanthropic efforts for education reform within Boston. Can you remember that, Richard? If any press reaches out to you?”

“I,” Simmons says. The word lodges in his throat. He clears his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

He waits until she’s gone and then flops backwards, pressing his knuckles against his closed eyes until the frustrated prickling stops threatening tears. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and then another.

Heavy paws press down on his chest. When he opens his eyes, Grif stares down at him. “Correction: your entire family sucks,” he says grimly. His claws prick through the suit and shirt. “Want to get out of here?”

“It’s almost midnight,” Simmons says, but it’s a token protest. He doesn’t want to stay here.

“Uh huh, but consider this. We have frozen pizza at your apartment. And no crappy family. And your notebook. Don’t you want to write down all the magic crap before you forget?”

The reminder that he did magic again makes him smile, albeit weakly. “We didn't figure out that magic trail," he points out. "But I doubt we could get away with wandering around anymore." He sighs wistfully, setting the mystery aside as something to try and solve another day. Maybe during the off-season, when his family is back in Boston and only a skeleton staff remains at the beach house. "Okay, yeah. We're going. Just let me pack.”

 

* * *

 

Simmons drops his luggage just inside his front door and takes a few exhausted steps towards the couch before he face-plants directly into it. He groans a little as Grif jumps and sits on the small of his back, a warm, heavy weight.

“Don’t sleep there. You’ll wake up complaining about your spine. Also, you promised me pizza.”

“Grif, it’s four in the morning,” Simmons mumbles, already half asleep despite his glasses digging into his cheek. “And I didn’t promise you anything.”

“Simmons,” Grif whines. “I didn’t get lunch.”

“Or dinner?” Simmons asks, lifting his head from the pillow. The spike of concern banishes some of his exhaustion. He frowns. “You should’ve said something, we could’ve--”

“Oh, no, uh, I definitely stole food from your dad’s kitchen. But that’s still only two meals yesterday!”

Simmons rolls his eyes. “You’ll live.”

“Come on,” Grif wheedles. “Cook that pizza while you write your notes about tying your dad’s shoelaces with magic. Kill two birds with one stone!”

Simmons groans again, but the reminder of his notebook gets him off the couch once Grif jumps down. He takes off his glasses and rubs his hand across his eyes, blinking until the instructions for the pizza stop blurring. “Okay, so,” he mumbles, fumbling for his notebook as the pizza cooks. “Right before the spell, I felt this pressure in my head and around me. I felt it go when I said the spell-- which wasn’t really any spell I remember from the book? I didn’t repeat it three times, it didn’t rhyme, so I--”

“Just wanted it bad enough,” Grif says. “The pressure thing’s weird. I don’t know what that’s about.”

“Neither do I,” Simmons sighs. “And if I wasn’t so tired, I could come up with some theories, but--” He yawns. “My brain feels like mush.”

“Eh, you’ll figure it out.” There’s a sudden pressure against Simmons’ legs, like Grif is leaning against him. “And hey, look on the bright side. You didn’t collapse after the spell.”

“Yeah. Maybe it depends on the spell?”  

“Maybe. You know what spells you should try next? Food spells.”

Simmons laughs. “You know you’re really predictable, right?” He watches the oven timer tick down, exhausted, but not exhausted enough to forget everything Grif’s seen at the beach house. He makes a face. “So now you’ve met my family.”

“Yep.”

“You said-- uh, it sounded like yours wasn’t great either.” He remembers Grif’s grudging admittance that he generally spent his Halloweens with someone watching classic movies. There’s at least one family member Grif likes, even if he’s been keeping his sentence as a witch familiar a secret from them. Simmons burns with curiosity. Is the person his mom? A brother or sister? A cousin? With as long as witches live, maybe even a grandparent? "Want to talk about it?"

“Yeah, you’re not getting my tragic backstory, dude.”

“But you know about mine!” Simmons says. It comes out more of a whine than he means, but Grif only snorts.

“Yeah, and how much do you hate that?”

Simmons grimaces, conceding the point. “Okay, fine.”

“You’d need a lot better than frozen pizza to get that out of me.”

Simmons smiles down at him. “Oh yeah? Like what? Should I bribe you with caviar? No, wait, I know your weakness now. Food with gold flakes.”

Grif snorts again, but his ears twitch in amusement. “Uh huh. That doesn’t work when I know you’re living on a teacher’s salary.” Apparently he doesn’t know that edible gold is relatively inexpensive.

Simmons fakes a resigned sigh, making a mental note to track down some edible gold when it’s not almost four in the morning. Maybe he can surprise Grif out of some family secrets.

 

* * *

 

Simmons taps his pen against the shopping cart handle bar, checking his list again. He keeps getting a feeling like he’s forgetting something, even though he’s checked every item off. After a second, he shrugs and gets in line at the checkout.

From the corner of his eye, he spies a familiar face. His heart stops dead, and then accelerates. He turns his head just a little and stares at the Boston Magazine on display. His father smiles back, on hand on Daniel’s shoulder. They’re posed in front of the Simmons Real Estate’s main office.  

_Family Ties - One of Boston's newest power families and their place in Boston's elite._

Simmons’ hand is trembling as he takes the magazine off its rack. It takes him a few seconds to flip through and find the article.

The photographs jump out at him. The first few were obviously given to the magazine by his mother. One is of the entire family for a Christmas card when Simmons was six, Peter was eleven, and Daniel thirteen. The second is of his father and his grandfather, breaking ground on the last development they worked on together. The third is his mother accepting a humanitarian award last June, his father and brothers smiling from the table in front of the podium. There are two taken at the reunion. The fourth is out by the fire-pit, Daniel hoisting his son up onto his shoulders as his wife looks on, one hand on her rounded stomach. The last is everyone raising their glasses to toast Peter’s engagement. Simmons’ face is obscured by his champagne glass.

He skims the article. Most of it tells the history of his grandfather’s rise as a real estate mogul and the present day effort of his parents to step up as a new power family in Boston, including the philanthropic efforts that have won his mother several awards. Then it focuses on the next generation. His stomach clenches. He skims for mention of his name, and finally lands on a few sparse paragraphs.

_As much as the Simmons promote themselves as a family business, not everything is sunshine and roses. There was unexpected tension at the reunion as the youngest son Richard apparently turned down a prestigious position at a Boston charter school in favor of continuing his present job outside the family business. On track to complete a law degree and join his brother Peter at the business’s law office, Richard unexpectedly quit three years ago to pursue a career in education._

_When I interviewed her about the visible tension between her husband and their youngest, Mrs. Simmons wears the rueful smile of a mother with mixed feelings about her child’s decisions. "I am proud of his dedication to his work, of course, but a mother worries. He lives so far away that we scarcely get to see him anymore. I was hoping he would move back to Boston. But he's devoted to his students, and has been invaluable in opening my eyes to what teachers in Boston experience.”_

_She goes on to describe the Simmons Real Estate's next fundraising efforts: supporting the local teachers union._

That’s it. There’s no other mention of him. Simmons isn’t certain whether to be relieved or hurt that his mother has so deftly excluded him from the family narrative. He ends up with a mixture of both churning in his stomach.

“You gonna buy that?” a bored voice asks.

Simmons blinks at the clerk. “What?”

The clerk jerks his chin towards the magazine. “Buy it or put it back, dude. This isn’t a library.”

“Oh, uh.” Simmons swallows down an uncomfortable laugh. “I don’t want it.” A sudden memory prods him. He’d been half-asleep during the conversation, but now he remembers Grif’s joke about bribery. He sets the magazine back on its display stand, and smiles faintly, already imagining Grif’s reaction to gold leaf brownies. “Uh, though actually, I forgot to buy one thing. Do you have any edible gold?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Dishonorable Mention**
> 
> 2x11 - Churchmageddon - Look, it was the 90s. We’re pretty sure every show was legally under contract to include a very special episode about the dangers of video games. There’s no way this one wasn’t going to be stupid. And yet somehow it was even worse than expected, with Church being out-of-character mean to Caboose and making him cry, and Carolina and Tucker staging a cringy intervention for him. The only good thing to come out of this episode is Grey and Kimball’s discussion that Church should probably get out of the house more.


End file.
